


What We've Become

by starryeyedgirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Future Fic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Content, Strong Language, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 06:25:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2259345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starryeyedgirl/pseuds/starryeyedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Boltons have fallen, and there is a Stark in Winterfell once more.</p>
<p> Almost.</p>
<p>Winter is coming, and in its wake, the wolves gather. Only they aren't the same. Rickon's almost a wildling, Arya a faceless assassin, and Sansa a player in the game of thrones.</p>
<p>The North remembers. But will the Starks?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Curious Little Boy

**Author's Note:**

> The events herein are set five years after those in 'A Game of Thrones'. I own nothing.
> 
> My first shot at writing fanfiction. Feedback would be invaluable!

The cold air was like a knife through his chest. _Run._ The flagstones were slick with ice, and the boy stumbled occasionally, always managing to right himself before he could fall for true. _Faster, faster._

The pursuing footsteps had silenced. He skidded to a halt, pressing his back against the wall, listening. Nothing. Willam suppressed the urge to laugh in triumph; he had lost the others, his brother and their friends. He would win the game today. Certain he was no longer being followed, the boy looked about him, taking in his surroundings for a long moment.

He had lived in Winterfell all seven years of his life, and for four of them the keep had been in ruins. Nothing but a hollow, burnt shell, empty window panes gaping forlornly from blackened stone. There had been people here long ago, Willam remembered. 

He had been too young at the time to remember their faces, but he did remember little things. Servants bustling, readying the fires. Archers practicing in the yard, the thrumming of arrows filling the chill morning air. A boy not much older than him, a boy who walked with wolves...

But they were there no more. What Willam did remember were the ones that came after. The bad men, his mother called them.   
Even now they were a fading thought, an uneasy flash of pink banners in the back of his young mind. He had been afraid of the men, but he’d feared the dogs more. 

Shuddering, he pushed away from the stone wall, clutching his gloves a little tighter to his fingers as he dawdled. His breath was white mist in the air. All was silent.

To his left, an archway opened up to a little winding staircase, the door no doubt burned away some time before. Willam had never been to this part of the keep before; it was far from the kitchens where his mother worked, and she had warned them that the ruins would no doubt be treacherously icy. That didn’t seem to be the case, the boy observed as he stepped nearer the doorway. There were hot springs under Winterfell, and it kept the halls warm enough even when they were empty.

“I wonder what’s up here.” Willam asked, to no one in particular. The sound of his own voice settled his nerves a little. There was something unnameable about this part of the keep, where no repairs had been made, and ashes still scattered the floor. It was as though sadness had crept into the stonework.

He was eager to leave it behind, venturing up one step, then another, spiralling upward in a dizzying succession. At one point, the wall to his left gave way to a small window, where snowflakes were piled against the glass pane. The upper floors of the turret seemed less damaged than the rest of the keep, and as Willam climbed higher, he could almost pretend that the fires had never happened, that he was Lord of Winterfell and not some kitchenmaid’s son wandering where he shouldn’t.

When he reached the top, the staircase broadened onto a narrow hallway. Willam stepped forward, looking right and left. There were lighter patches on the walls, where tapestries had been torn away or burnt. That made him feel uneasy. He decided to go into the first chamber he came across, a small arched weirwood door carved with winter roses. To the boy’s surprise, the heavy panel gave way with one turn of the handle, creaking back on its hinges to reveal a spacious room beyond. The sudden intrusion caused a flurry of dust to ascend, making him splutter despite himself. His eyes adjusted to the half-light, and he could see what lay within.

It was a bedchamber, with a large canopy bed stood against the far wall. The sheets and drapes were fine, some white material printed with grey flowers. There was a carved wardrobe beside the windows, where the mottled glass looked out over the keep, the wolfswood a dark smudge of trees in the distance. An empty hearth presided over the other wall, a grey smattering of ash all that remained in the grate.

All in all, it was rather disappointing. Willam had been expecting some secret passage, or a feasting hall, or an armoury full of ancient swords. He had never been allowed to explore this part of the keep, and he had always assumed that to be because of some sort of treasures lying within. But it was just a bedchamber, with not a speck of dust out of the ordinary. 

His eye was suddenly caught by a weirwood chest pushed against the foot of the bed. It looked a little more promising- after all, wasn’t treasure always hidden in chests? Eagerly Willam stumbled forward, dropping to his knees and pushing open the lid of the box with all his might. It was _awfully_ heavy. His eyes widened as the shadows shifted within the box, and its contents became visible.

Willam almost cried out in frustration. _Clothes_ , he realised, picking up one folded garment with a clumsy hand. It was blue and long and made of worsted wool. _Worse, it’s a girl’s clothes._ He quickly dropped the dress to the floor, rummaging around a little more. He was in no hurry; no doubt his playmates were looking for him, in the yard, in the stables, in the kitchens. _No one will ever find me up here._ No one would know that he was being nosey, as his mother often said he was.

His investigation produced only a few more dresses, an old blue cloak, a pair of fur mittens, and a book. The tome was small, nothing like the enormous ones the new Maester had brought with him to the keep, and though Willam couldn’t read the words, he could tell easily enough that the picture on the front was of a fool kissing the hand of a fair maiden. Something in his memory stirred. A song, ‘Florian and Jonquil’. He’d only ever heard it twice, the sound of singing thrown out from the great hall during feasts. Part of him wondered if the new Lord would let them have more feasts and singing, now that all the fighting was over.

The boy froze where he was when he heard the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. They were soft, too soft to be a man’s, but too heavy for a child’s. His mother, perhaps, come to scold him? With a jolt of panic, Willam set the book down, dropping it from his gloved hands with a heavy _thud_ he was sure was loud enough to alert the whole castle. Rushing to his feet, he had only time to lurch toward the fireplace. He ducked low beneath the stone and, scrambling for purchase either side of the hearth, managing to pull himself into the chimney just as the door swung open again.

Whether the unknown intruder had seen his boots disappear up the low chimney or not, they didn’t seem to pay any heed to him at first, the soft steps crossing to the middle of the room. Willam hardly dared to breathe, suddenly terrified that it _wasn’t_ his mother at all, but some ghost of a winter queen come to rid her halls of wayward little boys.

There was a gentle scraping sound, as though something were being lifted from the floor. Willam closed his eyes, praying silently to the Old Gods that he wouldn’t be found out. 

They didn’t seem to hear his prayer, though, as a clear voice suddenly called out from the bedchamber. “Who is here?” A woman’s voice, a kind voice, but he was frightened all the same. “Show yourself.”

He was in for it now. Gulping hard, Willam lowered himself enough that the toe of his boot touched the cinders. It shook. He finally managed to slip down from his hiding-place, stepping out onto the stone floor of the chamber, cheeks covered in soot and a shame-faced blush.

The woman stood beside the chest, watching him with wide blue eyes. She wore a dress of grey wool and edged with white fur, and her hair fell down her back in long ringlets the colour of shining copper. The young boy couldn’t help but compare her to the fair maiden in the book, the very same one she was clutching to her chest in what was almost a protective embrace.

“And who are you?” The young woman asked, not ungently. She wasn’t very old, Willam realised, no older than the stableboy, or the blacksmith’s ‘prentice. He shuffled his feet as he stole shy glances at her, not sure whether he should meet her eye or not.

“I’m Willam.” He replied reluctantly. “Who are you?”

The woman regarded him for a heartbeat, her lips curling up a little in a smile. “I’m Sansa Stark.” She explained. “Lady of Winterfell.”

A silent dread formed in the pit of his stomach at that. He remembered now; _this_ was the new lady of the castle, the one his mother had been talking about for what seemed an age. The whole keep was busy preparing for her arrival, and, soon after, her wedding day.

She was an important person, and he had been sneaking about her halls. _Will she throw me in the dungeons for going where I shouldn’t?_ The idea made his knees quake. Or worse, would she tell his mother?

“Why are you in this part of the castle, Willam?” Lady Stark asked, smiling at him. Her arms tightened a little around the book. He gave a little shrug of his shoulders, his face still warm from being caught out.

“Hiding.” Was all he said in reply, watching the noblewoman with a caution that could only have belonged to a child. “M’lady.” He added in hasty politeness. She nodded once, knowingly, before passing a glance around the room. Her eyes were far away.

“This is a lonely place.” She said, voice soft and distant. The lady hardly seemed to be in the room at all, the bright pools of her eyes flickering over every surface as though she had not quite woken from sleep. Willam watched her for a little while, shuffling his feet on the dusty flagstones, before working up the courage to speak.

“Do you know who’s room this was?” He heard himself ask timidly. It wasn’t that the question truly bothered him, but he wanted to gauge Lady Stark’s mood before attempting his escape. She didn’t seem angry with him, but he had never met a lady before. Perhaps everything was different with them.

Her eyes found his then. Her smile didn’t quite reach them. “It belonged to a girl a little older than you. She liked stories and songs.” Lady Stark looked down at the book in her hands, and her mouth quivered, just a little. Willam decided to use her silence, stepping backward toward the door without her notice.

“Where is she?”

“Gone.” The word was a murmur, her mouth unsmiling. “All gone.”

Willam waited, hardly daring to breathe. And then she looked at him again, and her moment of melancholy had vanished like a summer snow. “Have you been hiding for very long? Someone must be looking for you. Best go and end their worrying.”

The boy nodded eagerly, feeling a small shred of relief at her words. “Alright.” He made for the door, pausing to catch another glimpse of her. She was still clutching the book to herself, as though it were keeping her afloat on some sea he couldn’t fathom. 

And when he closed the door behind him, the creaking of the hinges a wail in the silence, he thought he heard the tiniest of sobs. Like something breaking apart.


	2. The Nameless Girl

The old man sat at his usual table, on the cobbled quayside overlooking the docks. He sat for a while, watching the ships in the distance. Every so often, a hand crisscrossed with blue veins would raise to his lips, opening to accept a mouthful of fish soup from the spoon he held.

The girl eyed him with numb resignation. His name had been given, and the Many Faced God would have his due. So she thumbed the handle of the knife in her cloak pocket, shrouded in the shadows between a fishmonger’s and a whorehouse. The sound of bawdy laughter swirled around her, mingled with raucous cries of pleasure from an open window to her left. But she hardly heard it, hardly registered the stink of rotting fish. All that mattered, all that _existed_ , was the knife, the shadows around her, the man on the quay.

That evening, she wore the face of a plain girl. This one was not as interesting as the others, the one with the pox, the one that clearly belonged to a young boy. She looked like anybody, one face among hundreds on the harbourside at this hour. The hood was pulled over her hair, rendering her otherwise uninteresting appearance even more commonplace.

All the better. As she stepped out into the street, mingling with a rowdy group of sailors roaring ‘Three Maids in a Pool’ at the top of the lungs. They carried her along the sweep of cobbles, past winesinks and merchant houses alike, until she was within sight of the inn where the elderly man was at his supper. The girl had been watching him for a week. He was solitary, a creature of habit, always returning at the same time of day and ordering the same dish. It was growing almost easy now, though she would never let herself think that. As the kindly man had told her, the gift they brought was not supposed to be easy, but a duty.

Her target sat hunched over his bowl, and she watched him silently, swiftly pulling the knife from the pocket and slipping it into her sleeve. The shadows clinging to the inn provided her a vantage point, and no one was looking at some ragged girl on the wharf. Bravos swaggered past, painted whores called out from open windows, and cats padded about underfoot, led by the smell of seafood. She used to know a girl who chased cats. But that girl was long gone.

Her eyes darted back to the old man. It would be simple enough; slip among a crowd of people walking from harbour to harbour, slip the little dagger into her hand, and on passing the table where he sat, deftly slip the blade between his ribs. He would slump into his soup, and no one would be the wiser.

Except that the old man had gotten up from his table, a move she had not anticipated, and begun to amble down a side street beside the inn. Quiet as a shadow, she moved to follow him, keeping enough distance to not draw attention to herself. The alleyway was narrow, the harbourside houses rising up either side, almost enough to block out the burning light of sunset. The noise and stink of the docks receded somewhat here, the air chill and subdued. A few barefoot children, most likely pickpockets, sat hunched in empty doorsteps watching her. Ahead in the gloom, the edge of a cloak swishing round a corner told her where to go. She continued.

It soon became apparent to the girl, however, that her quarry had vanished like smoke. The passageway ahead was empty, opening out onto the grey expanse of a canal. The girl looked about her, once, twice, casting her eyes over every shadow. They yielded no answers, so she resolved to return to the House of Black and White and seek out the elderly man tomorrow. After all, she had waited longer than this before. What was one more day?

The hand reached out of nowhere, clamping around her mouth in a mere moment. It took the same amount of time for the girl to wrench the dagger from her sleeve, pushing it upward toward her assailant’s face. Another hand gripped her wrist, squeezing hard until she let go of the knife. It felt to the cobblestones with a clatter, but she hardly heard it, twisting swiftly against the grip on her body. It was no good; she was trapped.

“If a girl stays still, she might hear what a man has to say.”

She stilled. She had known that voice, once. Then she had worn a different face, a different name. Her assailant took the hand from her mouth, resting it on her forearm.

“A girl is wise.” The man said, stepping around her. He didn’t relinquish his grip, preventing her from hitting out at him. 

Something in her stomach grew cold when she saw the face of the old man, mouth curled up in a half-smile. “A girl has been watching a man, but a man was watching the girl also.”

She stared at him wordlessly. Where her heart was usually steady, it was thudding against her ribs. This was too much, two lives she had known merged together. It threatened to break down the wall in her mind, the wall of unfeeling, numbing emptiness. The man’s eyes looked back, sharper than any elder’s eyes had right to be.

“Will a girl tell me who she is today?” The words left his mouth softly, a strange parallel to the withered face he wore. 

“No one.” She replied. The words were second nature.

“A lie.” The old man tutted at her, before letting go of her arm and wrist completely, letting her stagger backward a step. “A girl does not remember.”

She gnawed her lip, before realising that she had done it again. Stupid Arya Stark had always chewed her lip, not her. She was no one.

“I do remember.” Was her retort. “I remember _you_.”

The man laughed, ever so lightly, as though it were the movement of air. “That is well. But a girl does not remember herself, and that is a sadness. Still,” his crooked smile returned, contorting the face he wore so very oddly, “a man did not come to talk of things past. He came to give a girl a name.”

A name meant many things to the girl, and nothing at all. A name meant death. Her gaze was level as her eyes met his.

“Say it.” She had given him names before, in the charred ruins of Harrenhal. _No, you stupid, that was Arya._

The man looked at her, and his gaze seemed to take her somewhere else, somewhere before she had ever been Cat of the Canals or the blind beggar or even the ugly girl. Before she had known Brusco and his daughters, or the whores in the Happy Port, or even the Kindly Man and the waif.

He spoke a name. She knew it all too well.


End file.
